


Given, not taken

by hauntedpoem



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Asha helps Robb win the war, Asha is a badass, Catelyn does not approve, F/M, Jon's one lucky bastard, Jon's very girly from behind- Theon didn't see his stubble, M/M, Theon gets a salt wife, and they all get married!!! XD, cute direwolves and slippery krakens, everybody is so confused, heavy use of house mottos, she's no lady - she's a kraken, the kids are allright, this is realistic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asha Greyjoy knows best when to hit and when to keep silent. Being the Kraken's daughter taught her that. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about her brother, Theon. After they raid Winterfell, they end up striking a new alliance. After all... they have different ways of taking what's theirs. Robb/Asha, Jon/Theon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 in which Asha , despite being a badass warrior still falls for pretty boys and Theon confuses Jon Snow, man of the Night's Watch with the wrong "daughter".  
> Disclaimer - I own nothing!  
> Comments are always welcome, so tell me what you think! I hope I can update soon.

Asha's axe hit into the heavy armor once, then twice, unrelenting, until the man fell. He was as tall as a mountain, as strong as a wolf, but Asha was a kraken and she had the sea and the wind on her side. The bitter salt was flowing through her veins. Her brother Theon, was high on the hills, challenging the Northmen with his bow and arrows, loosing them one by one as fast as the wind. As the Northmen fell, the Ironborn advanced.

They didn't really have a choice but to raid the land, Asha thought. The supplies of their Iron Islands became scarce and soon there wouldn't have been enough to sustain the people.

Theon said that it was because the North waged war on the Lannisters. They took three ships by force and when they landed on the vast, grey land of the North, they found themselves wanting more. Robb Stark, the boy-king was far enough with his army and Winterfell was practically defenseless. The war they started in haste against the Lannisters was doomed. Although his actions were noble, the young king in the North was too trusting and inexperienced in dealing with Caterly Rocks' pit of vipers.

They took a village, raided what they could and decided to wait, there a couple of days just because they found it amusing how easy it was. The once-promising Robb Stark has left his lands in the hands of craven and old men. Needless to say, the North had good enough ale and enough grains and meat but their weather was as rough as that of the Iron Islands. Their people were cold, stern and hated the invaders with a passion. They hid their frustration well enough but the Ironmen couldn't dwell on such trifle matters when famine was worse than any threat from Winterfell.

Robb Stark dared to underestimate the feud between his allies (now enemies) and the Greyjoys. Balon Greyjoy, has bowed once, but he wasn't going to make that mistake again. The threat of the war left little prey for the Ironborn at sea. There would be weeks without a ship to pass the barren Iron Islands, and Asha swore that with each passing week of scrutinizing the sea, even the grey rocks sustaining the castle of Pyke would disintegrate when battered by terrible storms.

Famine, war, cold and darkness she knew well. The blue eyes lit up by some invisible sun she knew not, and they were staring straight at her from across the road. He wore a helmet with a crown like the olden kings did. His young age and imposing posture spurred Asha's burgeoning curiosity to get closer, to assess, to appreciate, to touch.

He seemed blessed with not only beauty but also strength, an honest character, a bright future. Except for this war. He should learn to avenge his father in different ways. Pray in the Crypts to their gods, not go against the rich and treacherous Lannisters. He was very handsome, just the way she liked her men. Asha couldn't help but stare straight into his cobalt eyes.

Finally, the boy-king, Robb Stark decided to advance on his armored horse. Reckless. Maybe he realized in time he was going to lose the war against the traitorous Lannisters- Asha hoped- and so, with great efforts came to grace the Ironborn with his kingly presence. Typical of a Northman to keep his word to his people. They had his little brothers locked in a room and their large wolves in a cage. Maybe they'll do the same to him until they took enough of the goods. My, oh, my… the boy-king sure was furious. He frowned and his eyes sparkled with intensity. He was even more handsome than at first. Anger did suit him well.

Behind the boy-king, a jape of an army stretched, tired and probably as famished as her Ironborn were a couple of days ago. He came as soon as he received the raven.

"You are going to lose, your grace," Asha mocked him, her voice loud enough to rise the Ironborn into a harshly pitched laughter. They were nothing but rough men, reapers, raiders, even rougher women, holding axes, bows, spears and swords, their spoils of war. One Ironborn behind her wore a sturdy wolf-helmet. It was a trophy for which the man paid the iron price.

She knew it made Robb Stark frown and could barely contain a grin of her own. Her brother, Theon, aimed his bow straight at Robb Stark's head, prepared to shoot, just in case. The cord was tense, ready to make the arrow fly and pierce through beautiful skin and pale, northern bone. Pretty boy was going to die instantly, as Theon's arrows were sharp and sometimes poisoned with the tentacle of a jellyfish. Her younger brother was becoming too comfortable with this. He was always amused. His face, although tired from the fighting and the preying, was mocking and had a jolly nuance to it. Whenever there was raiding, Theon was in a very good mood.

"Aye, dear sister, his grace is going to lose but what's worse is that he still believes that he can win."

He chortled and his pretty face twisted in an arrogant smile. Asha wanted to smack him but that would be a waste of energy because Theon Greyjoy was relentless in his obnoxious behavior. Little brother or not, Asha would make sure he doesn't step over the line even if that menat swinging an axe at him from time to time. She tried her best to ignore his stupid behavior.

"If you leave Winterfell this instant…" Robb Stark began but Asha cut him with a knife thrown at his helmet, making the lid close harshly with a metallic clang.

"Oh, it speaks," she said to herself.

Again, the Ironborn laughed and cheered.

"We won't leave until we take what is ours," she retorted and by the silence that greeted her, she knew that she had humiliated Robb Stark to no repair in front of reapers and raiders who had no sense of honesty and in front of his own cornered bannermen who squirmed on their horses completely surrounded by her relentless army.

From the silence of it she also gauged that the boy-king, although honorable and stoic until his last breath, has been spared the humiliation of being seen red-faced and confused. The helmet was beautifully crafted. Perhaps she should take it along with that heavy crown on it.

But he was too noble for his own good. Idiot. He would soon find that Asha, although appreciative of his noble approach, did not give up so easily. Behind her, on Theon's orders, a lady, high on her horse has been taken hostage and kept like a trophy in front of Robb Stark's handful of an army.

"If you leave Winterfell this instant, we won't come after you," he managed in a shaky voice. He was expecting, hoping for an answer to his liking but Asha knew she had to teach the young wolf that there were things in life that didn't usually go the way you wanted them to. He would be dealt a hard-lesson but because she felt merciful, not a death-blow. Hopefully. She liked him already too much.

"Leave me, take your filthy hands off of me," the lady struggled, her voice every ounce as dignified as that of Robb Stark.

Her Ironborn took everyone hostage. The small number of fighting men that Stark brought with him were soon disarmed and immobilized and he was left unprotected on his horse who huffed and twisted briskly, in fear of the harsh movements of armed men.

"Get down from your horse before it throws you off, your grace," Her words were more concerned than mocking and to her surprise, the freshly anointed king of the North obeyed.

"Please, let go of my Lady Mother, my Lady," he tried.

Asha struggled not to roll with laughter.

"I am no lady, your grace. And if you concern yourself with matters of politeness and etiquette when one of my men has your mother by the throat, you are a fool."

This gained approval from her men as Theon secured their hostages going as far as to approach Lady Catelyn with mock respect and even take her hand to kiss it.

"Drop your sword, your grace," Asha commanded and to her surprise, Robb yielded. Too easily for her liking, though.

Then, she turned to her men and ordered while her eyes rested on Catelyn Stark, freshly widowed from what she'd heard.

"Take them all to the castle. Tell them to make preparations for us. Only then they can reunite with their hostage sons. They are unharmed, my Lady," Asha said in Catelyn Stark's direction not unkindly. "I want the strongest wine for tonight. Take her ladyship to her rooms and let her order her servants for us. We celebrate in Winterfell tonight for we do not sow!"

.

.

.

Asha swung her axe as if in practice to let them know that she meant every word that she said and approached Robb Stark.

"Leave us," she commanded and Robb gave her a stare of his own. She seemed strong, both in mind and character.

"I have respect for the old ways, not for bravado, your grace."

Her idiot brother was already talking about taking a salt wife for himself. Well… that would be a first.

The boy-king in the North was breathing heavily under his helmet, heavy and shiny. A new armor for a new king.

"How hard is your steel, boy?" she asked as she grabbed the front of his helmet and pushed it open and off of his head, leaving the Stark staring his hard, dignified stare. "A Stark and a Tully," Asha responded to his dour, defeated face. "They couldn't stop but go higher, flaunting their righteousness and their values and their honor, right? Worry not; no man of mine is to touch your mother or any of your family, if that brings you any comfort. They've been fed and treated well by my men. Even their wolves. Not the same can be said about the Lannisters on which you've turned your undefended back. "

He looked straight at her with those blue eyes aflame and Asha knew how harshly he was judging her. After all, he saw what all men did at first, just a woman with an exe and battle-worn. Just a woman. However there was a spark of gratefulness when she mentioned his family.

"And do your men listen to you enough to promise me that?" Stark replied in a clipped tone, disgust and hate marring his beautiful, young face.

To her surprised, she slapped him hard enough to make him wobble on his feet, and Robb Stark was tall and strong, not willowy and slender like her. His face remained turned, eyes set adamantly into the depths of the godswood, avoiding her and her touch like she was bearing the plague. However, the rest of his body was unmoving. His honorable character didn't let him see some things.

"I may be a woman to you, but disregard me one more time, Robb Stark, young wolf, and I'll geld you before I'll behead you!" she spat at him, her spare hand grabbing a handful of his russet curls and turning his head harshly and too close for comfort to her face.

The first thing Robb noticed was that her face was stained with sweat, blood and dust, the remarkable features of a pretty face clashing violently with her chopped locks, so unlike a woman's. He appeared jaded when confronted with her courage, her hostility, her harsh femininity. For a passing instant he seemed confused, trapped between fear and fascination.

Such a strange woman. When he first saw her, he thought it was a young man. She was dressed in a light leather and steel armour, a Kraken carved onto the chest plate, her body slim but somehow not lacking in strength judging by the weight of the weapons she carried. Her lips were moist and red as the leaves of the weirwood, delicious but firm. As enigmatic as the mist that kept rising over the surrounding woods, her eyes changed in color as darkness fell on Winterfell. They settled to rest on his.

Robb could see it despite their cold, stormy color and surreal gleam. The eyes of Asha Greyjoy, about whom she's heard so much but not enough, they were communicating to him a secret code, a message that made his breath hitch, his heart ache. It was a sweet ache, like longing and he didn't know which scared him the most: the fact that he was to become a prisoner in Winterfell at the hand of a woman or the fact that said woman became in his eyes the most dangerous and most exquisite being to have walked the earth. He couldn't concentrate on the fact that she had an exe in her right hand and its blow was crushing and deadly.

"I never said nor thought that about you, my lady," he whispered, colder than the ever-approaching winter air, colder than even his late-father's murmur from a common grave. "I could never think that they may not listen to you because you are a woman but…"

"But what?" she shook him far from gently, her fingers deepening into those glorious locks until the nails started digging into scalp. "But why? Say it, I dare you to say it, because otherwise you won't be able to say it anymore!" her roughness kept him focused, instead. He looked more attentively at her, into her.

"Your men might not want to see you as a woman anymore, not when you command them so fiercely, not when you provide them with your strength and… your own sort of honor." He swallowed hard, eyes glancing into the distance, too far away.

"My men… they can't tell woman from man when it's power they want to see."

But nonetheless, Robb Stark was bitter.

"I've left my men to fight until death to save their home. I might as well be beheaded now than suffer the shame of guiding them into a kraken's trap instead of freeing them from the lion."

He felt her salty smell so close, her warm breath on his nose, her fist relaxing into a palm and touching his curls and his forehead lightly. Her hand was hot and damp. The weather took a bad turn. It started to drizzle.

"I've never said I'll leave you as prey for the lion, Stark."

Her voice rang eerily to his surroundings, drowned him instantly, a promise that threatened with ocean eyes and comforted like the milk of the poppy.

"And… I like you better with your pretty head on your shoulders."

"Then free us and let us return to our war, I can't let my men die there. I'd rather die myself."

"No. First you'll do as I say."

.

.

.

"I'll give you my daughter's hand in marriage," Ser Poole said eagerly, his voice trembling all the while, but Theon smirked and nonchalantly laughed.

"I don't need you to give me anything. I take what I want. Your daughter holds no interest to me as I've already set my eyes on another, far better than what you have to offer." Theon answered brazenly dismissing the older man.

Eyes turned to him. Robb looked behind his frown.

"I've seen the Stark girl already and she's to be my salt wife. "

Catelyn Stark froze with the knife in her hand, glad for the very first time that there were very few people at the dinner table she was humiliated into organizing that night.

Asha smirked from across the table, next to Robb and focused on his mother who stood right in front of her.

"And which of my daughters would you have, as they have been taken hostage by our enemy at Casterly Rock, prince Greyjoy?" Catelyn's voice dripped venom.

"She has hair as dark as the night and I bet her curls would feel nice and soft in my hands," he replied with an arrogance of his own, motioning suggestively with the knife in his hand. Catelyn's eyebrows rose and so did Robb's.

"Also, she's quite good with the sword and her swings are higher than any man's. I like a woman who can fight. It took three of my men to secure her with ropes. Where is she? Give her to me and I'll set you free. The image of my sister obliges me to look for strong, decisive women. She struggled when they confined her. She kicked and kicked. I liked that."

Catelyn smirked vaguely amused and looked at Theon as if he was a poor and demented babe.

Robb in turn, looked horrified, a strange realization came down on him as he'd seen his mother throw her napkin down dismissively.

"No!" He said, but his mother gave him a withering look and smiled in Greyjoy's direction.

"Sure. You can have the bastard!" And Theon looked like a man who's won the Lannister vaults. Catelyn's eyes flashed wickedly while a stern satisfaction settled on her face before she laughed from all her heart.

"Bastard, no bastard, she's to be my salt wife," Greyjoy answered in explanation.

"She… Her? A salt… wife! Hahahah hahaha. How amusing!" Lady Catelyn was breaking all rules of propriety with her laughter as if making a salt wife, even of your bastard daughter was good enough.

Theon should have trusted more his suspicion, but he dismissed it with more wine instead.

"No…" He trailed weakly as if the impossibility of the notion has been impressed into his brain.

Asha paid him no heed as she cleared her throat with greedy gulps of wine.

"Then, your ladyship, you won't be adverse to return me the same favor," the Ironborn princess drawled. "I want your son, the young wolf."

Robb threatened to choke on his wine in shock. He was red in the cheeks and started feeling too hot all of a sudden.

Catelyn, almost rose from the table in anger. She was quivering and her jaw was clenching so violently that she could barely draw out her words. Her heart seemed to have been speared by the kraken's insolence.

"I will not give you my son. I will not! He is promised to marry the Frey's daughter!"

"I didn't ask for you to give him to me. I said I'll take him." she covered Robb's hand with hers and continued without sparing him a glance. We do not sow, we take what's ours and we pay the iron price by the old ways. My brother here might have asked you to give your daughter and kissed your hand to show you we're not savages but despite of your answer, he would have taken what he wanted." She smirked at Theon knowingly. "You saying yes to his request makes this victory even sweeter to us."

Catelyn was a statue, her face scrunched and her eyes hard slits showing the same Tully blue as Robb.

"Robb is to be king in the North!" Catelyn retorted icily.

"Did I say he could not?" Asha smirked confidently at her. Robb's cheeks were flushed, the goblet shaking in his hand. The air seemed hot and crackling around him. He could not look up. Propriety demanded to settle this matter and end this confusion. He was not a maiden to be disputed at the dinner table and definitely Jon, a Night's Watch man was no maiden at all. Such confusion paralysed him.

"He is to marry a Frey daughter, not an… a… Not you. Our men stationed in Riverrun to fight for the Trident. What would you know about forging alliances when you only take what's allegedly yours?"

"Frey daughter or no Frey daughter, there will still be Frey daughters. His grace can do as he pleases. I offered to help him win this war and you know that you'll need my help. Your men's fate at the bridge of the Twins depends on who's bringing who into battle. What do you say, your grace? Is a Frey more important than winning this war?"

He knows he should speak but the words are stuck like cotton wool in his throat. He manages a weak nod with his stiff posture, dignified. Her hand searches his and gives it a warm tug. He looks down and opens his mouth, but no words come. Her hand is so warm, feels so nice and it barely encompasses his. How is she even able to hold that axe, so big, so sharp? Her heat makes him dizzy, stirs and intoxicates him.

With effort, ignoring his Lady mother's stern eyes, his bannermen's expectant and fearful glances, his brothers' innocent stares and their wolves impassiveness, Robb turns towards Asha. Her eyes burn and her lips are a promise. He really likes the way she looks at him and he looks back, straight into her soul, hopefully. He almost gasps when her hand slips down, hot on his thigh and caresses with gentleness sending shivers in his whole body. He hears Rickon talking to the Maester as if they were not in a hostage situation. He even laughs. Robb wants to cry, because there is so much pleasure in that simple touch and he'd never think it possible for Asha Greyjoy to try seduction on him. It feels foreign, it feels so good.

"Ironborn as we are, we know one thing," she concludes and Robb knows somehow that she's long ceased to spar with his Lady mother. "A heart can't be taken if it's not given."

.

.

.

"Where is she, your bastard daughter?" Theon Greyjoy asked when he found Lady Catelyn on her way from the Great Hall.

"In the dungeons as you ordered your men." Catelyn smirked to herself. She was retreating with her sons and their direwolves. Strangely, the creatures didn't pay much attention to Theon.

"Then send word I want her on my ship. We prepare to leave now. To the Iron Islands," he commands to the men next to him.

"Who is to leave on ship, mother?" asked Rickon with sleepy eyes as Bran was perched on Hodor's arms, already asleep.

"Jon, the bastard, my dear. He is to be a salt wife." She almost guffawed.

"A salt wife? What's that? Can a man be a wife, mother?"

And Catelyn could not contain her amusement. Wait and see, she thought, wait and see for the bastard you think you've stolen from me is no daughter. And never will be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After whoring all around Winterfell, Theon takes it to the dungeons, while his dear sister gets to plan the war all by herself (not exactly).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this to have more Jon/Theon interaction. I do have big plans with this fic, but for now, I want to keep it simple.  
> Also... I am fucking tired. I joined this choreography class for summer and after a terrible sleep I woke up with the after-effects of sleep paralysis. Yeah... sleep fucking paralysis. It was good I wasn't dreaming about bad stuff but for some retarded reason there was a person in my dream named Viy. I actually remember from the dream saying something like... Hey, isn't that from Gogol?  
> So yeah... maybe it's good I decided to post this chapter today so I might not get too entranced with this stuff that's happening to me right now.  
> Thank you for your support, I love you all, whoever you are!

It would be an understatement to say that Jon Snow was depressed. His mind couldn’t come to a valid conclusion as to why he was currently locked and heavily guarded in Winterfell’s dungeons. From the looks of it, he was no mere prisoner. Except no amount of food and wine could compensate for the freezaing cold of the stones around him.

 He paced nervously from one wall to another, shivering from the cold, his breath the only source of warmth for his hands.

Ever since Aemon Targaryen told him he could go and help in this war, Jon’s mind has been set on strengthening his brother’s reign after the tragic death of their father. And so, against his Lord Commander’s will, against his vows, Jon Snow left the Night’s Watch and the Wall and went to honor Robb’s letter, as a brother and as a swordsman.

But now, in this darkness and damp cold hole, whenever he closed his eyes, Jon Snow could see nothing but the same old image of Lord Stark beheading a poor madman that deserted the Night’s Watch.

No… Robb would want him fighting at his side, and Catelyn, as spiteful as she was, would not dispose of another man with a sword in his hand, ready to do anything for his brother’s victory.

Again, confusion took over him as he remembered Lady Catelyn’s unkind words of departure. “I wish it were you.” But those were words of grief, words only a mother on the brink of desperation could tell to her husband’s bastard son. Sometimes, it was true… Jon wished he could have taken Bran’s place. He wouldn’t have Hodor to carry him around, though.

He sat on the iron wrought bench and looked sadly behind the bars into the foggy air.

The guards didn’t pay him any heed. They were drunk and snoring already. He heard whispers about how Robb and Lady Catelyn Stark were dining with the raiders’ ruler. Why would Robb allow the Ironborn into his castle? Why would his brother allow such ignominy upon him? He wished Ghost was with him.

.

.

.

Theon Greyjoys was drunk and smelling of whores when he descended into the dungeons. The flickering smoky light of torches and their crackling reminded him of Pyke’s dank corridors. He decided he should pay a visit to his pretty salt wife, that he should check up on her and make her understand that she’ll always be his. Forever and always, at his every beck and call, for his pleasure.

A faint candle was lit on the old table where the guard fell asleep. His snoring and rise and fall of his chest seemed all wonky to Theon who chortled silently. He had no intention of waking the man and so, he grabbed for the keys and made his way to the dungeons.

Ah, there she was, his Northern beauty. He could have sworn she jerked her arms with a whimper and even through his hazy alcohol befuddled vision, Theon wanted nothing more than to touch her pale snowy skin and beautiful mane.

How soft it should be, he mused as he tried to maintain his balance on the dripping wet stones.  How perfumed, her skin? As nice as a Winterfell whore? Or better, for she was a Winterfell lady… She should be grateful, though… because he could have taken and ravished her right away, like his Ironborn uncles have done before him with their salt wives, their thralls and their whores.

His question was left unanswered somewhere in his tired mind and he directed the candle toward the iron bars so he could take a glance at her quivering body, her soft locks escaping the dark cloak’s confines and catching the faint light in their luscious coils.

Was she asleep? How was that even possible in this dark and damp cell? Poor girl, she must be tired.  Theon chastised himself for allowing his men to confine her, but they all complained how unyielding she was, how hard she fought to free herself from their clutches, how incredible she looked. He would have done the same, locked her in a tower and lavished her with all his attention, in between a raiding and a slaughter, and she would be so grateful and obedient to serve and love him, rock wives be damned!

.

.

.

The steps faltered. The key turned in the lock, and Jon kept his eyes open and his ears alert. He could barely see his visitor. A candle-light was casting cloudy shadows on the walls and the smell of drunkenness infiltrated his nostrils as the metal door pushed open. Instinctively, he palmed his hip for his sword, but now it was just an empty gesture because his sword has been taken. He curled his hand into a fist under the heavy cloak and steeled his breath. For one fact he knew that this was not Robb Stark. Robb would never amble drunk through the castle when surrounded by these barbarians.

The man drew closer, so close to his little bunk that Jon recoiled instinctively with a sharp breath.

“Oh, I see you’re awake, sweetling,” he drawled in a slurry voice, lecherous and sinisterly foreign. Under his cape, Jon frowned and tried scurrying away only to hit the cold, uneven stone wall.

“Umf.”

“Oh, don’t be afraid, soon, soon my dear we’ll be together.”

Jon wanted to protest and push away but the man’s hand sneaked under his cloak only to encompass his leg and travelled up, up, up.

All that he managed, from shock and bewilderment was a whine of displeasure. Never, never in his sorry life, has he ever been subjected to such a thing. As if on cue to his refusal, the hand skipped to his waist and lingered there and Jon could not deny he found the slenderness and warmth of it quite enticing, because he prepared to overturn this person, whoever they were and punch their face black and blue.

The man smelled so intoxicating, dirty even and even dared do draw so close that Jon swore for a minute they shared the same air of debauchery. And then, the stranger’s lips were on his, fervently working them apart and there was warm and there was wetness and the undeniable taste of Dornish strongwine, as sweet as sin, as sweet as vengeance. His taste was heady, and Jon felt lightheaded. The man before him sucked the breath out of him, making him pant and moan for air, in between the urge to bite those lips and suck the wine stain and strangle him dead. Jon could settle for none and instead muffled his words that got stuck somewhere in the hollow of the other’s mouth.

That was his first kiss, and instead of the mouth of a maiden fair, or at least the frozen Wall of the Night’s Watch, it belonged to a barbarian seaman. Sansa would blush at him as she usually did while reciting one of her favorite romance stories of knights and virginal ladies. Arya would scrunch her nose and remind him of the real knights and warrior women of the depths of history, of their honorable ways and their holy wars. Septa Mordane would proclaim it a sin as she would scream her lungs out in the crypts. Catelyn would repudiate him out of fear of staining Robb’s reputation and would make sure he breaks his legs on exit.

Jon already liked the feel of it.

“Wh-who…are...” was a poor attempt to find out this stranger’s name.

The candle flickered its waning light behind the man and it all seemed eerily strange to Jon.

The man sniggered into his mouth and Jon recoiled at how the breath repulsed him where as the taste unhinged his senses.  He made a strained gesture to pet his face and coiled a stray curl on his long fingers. As he parted, Jon could now see quite clearly his face. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. The man before him was only a few years older than him, gloriously handsome and shapely.

“Oh, of course m’lady…” He sniggered some more. Jon looked at him frowning incredulously.

“I am Theon Greyjoy, the Iron King’s only son and prince, soon to be his heir and Lord Reaper of Pyke,” he breathed heavily, lustfully as he searched under Jon’s heavy cloak, his slender hand tangled in the wools and furs and leather armor. “And soon, you’ll be my salt wife, mine alone.” He promised with a definite tug on a bump of cloth on Jon’s chest.”

He had the vague feeling that the only son of their enemy at sea, about whom his Lord Father had many a time talked in grief over a skin of wine, was now searching for a breast to fondle not knowing he won’t find it on Jon.

After all, his eyes looked a bit like a lunatic’s, gleaming strangely and murky as a lake in summer, with flecks of green and blue and grey.

 “Are you mocking me?” he demanded in a hush, his eyes hard and unyielding on Theon Greyjoy’s decadent gaze.

How could he not see that he was a man, grown and bred in the North, harsh as like the winter’s cold. He almost dared him with his eyes to search further, down his cloak, between his legs and all his confusion would be dispelled.

Greyjoy’s eyes would have frosted over with anger if not for the warmth of good wine, because he looked like a man coming out of an icy storm as he clasped his hand at the back of his head into his hair and smashed their lips together.

That was their second kiss and Jon was glad for it, because he didn’t want to lose his head if Greyjoy focused instead on something else and found it missing, like all the right girl parts that Sansa had. In fact, Jon would have done anything to stop his hands from wandering further. It felt deceitful despite the hotness that latched to his skin and coiled in his groin. He only needed his eager mouth and dutiful tongue to clash with his on a terrain that seemed more peaceful and pleasurable than sword fighting.

“Nng…” Jon sighed into the Ironborn prince’s mouth, unconsciously.

“Oh, you love it,” the prince whispered as he attacked his lower lip with fervor. “You love it…”

It felt good, Jon would admit as his own hands searched for the other’s neck to force him closer. He let his hands touch and examine the back of his head, the softness of his strikingly dark hair, the softness of the skin right under his armor, the smell of him, like salt and sea and battle.

Jon Snow, sixteen, bastard of the deceased Eddard Stark- Warden of the North, swordsman, man of the Night’s Watch by vow and deserter, prisoner in his  Winterfell home and soon to be Theon Greyjoy’s salt wife, liked it very much.

.

.

.

The library was lit by several torches- in Maester Luwin’s opinion, a very bad idea with a possibly dangerous outcome. Lady Asha requested every naval map that he could find. She was imposing like a man without being ungracious. She was appealing as a woman, without being weak. And she knew how to read maps and calculate and transform various distances unlike many other leaders. And she had three ships under her command and men loyal only to her. Maester Luwin observed her now from a considerable distance. He would never admit that he liked to watch her.

Studiously, she examined every map and made small notes on paper. She moved about like a man, springy and agile. She was a very interesting person to look upon, especially since he thought his heart was going to fail him that morning during the seize of Winterfell. He retreated silently, his grey, rough robe sweeping the floors smoothly as he eased his way through the large, daunting doors. It took him to knock into the king of Winterfell himself on his way out of the library, to realize he’s been holding his breath in accordance with the silence that beheld the castle.

“Good night Maester.”

“Good night, your grace.”

“I-I thought I’ll do some reading,” the young king blurted out suddenly, almost deafening his left ear (his bad ear), startling him a bit.

“Good, your grace, good,” he replied automatically, the same reply he would have given to Ned Stark years ago.

“Yes, of course,” said the young king.

 For a second, he appeared flustered to the Maester. He thought his eyesight worsened again. Then, right after he left the wing for good, a single thought flashed like a lightning bolt and he smiled.

“Oh… But of course he will.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of broken maidenheads and beheadings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea... This has fair amounts of both pairings.

Her eyes lit up when he entered her field of vision, sea-grey clashing with cobalt-blue under the orange light of torches. The library was silent, except for their unvoiced emotion and the creaking of wooden floors under foot.

“I haven’t taken you for a night owl, your grace,” Asha is the first to speak. She gets up swiftly from the table, resuming her reading. Several roads on the map before her are marked in red ink. Robb’s silence speaks volumes. He looks interested in what’s going on and more than amazed at her. After a while, his features settle into a warm, pleasant smile.

“I wanted to speak with you,” the words rush out of his mouth before he can think, seeing as Asha disappears deeper into the library.

“About our alliance?” she queries, voice all playful yet firm.

“About that as well…” He is thoughtful now, lost in the intricacies of the map, tracing lines with his fingers.

“Do you trust the Freys?” Asha suddenly asks behind several long-scrolls she carries.

“I… don’t know,” he answers finally, sincerely.

“And you are to marry one of them…”

“To ensure an alliance.” He says it as if his fate is already decided, as if he’s bound by honor to a girl he’s never met, whose father only waits for an opportunity to snap back at him and take his throne.

“But here I am, so there’s no need for you to do that,” she jibes.

“Does that mean… does that mean that you… I… we…?”

She laughs, crystalline and it comes out so natural for her, as if they’re not going in battle tomorrow, as if she’s one of Sansa’s carefree princesses.

“But do you trust the Boltons?” she cuts him off, instead.

“Well…”

“Do not tell me you don’t know about that either, your grace!” she continues, aroused with indignation. “You should have thought about it when you left that snake, Roose Bolton in command of your northmen at the Trident.”

“My Lady…” Robb begins, but Asha insolently talks over him.

“I told you not to call me that. I am the commander of my ships and of my men, not a stroppy princess who spends her time stitching and counting the silvers! Would you call them loyal to you? They’re as loyal as the Lannisters in my opinion… not very pleased with a green boy-king ruling the big, cold North…”

 She’s so close now, so close that Robb can feel her breath on his cheek. She smells of leather and wax and old dusty books. He never thought he’ll like that smell on anyone else before meeting this woman. Her hand travels lightly on the silver buttons of his tunic, as if counting them. She sneaks her hand between two buttons, easily accessing his chest.

“Is this why you wear so many clothes, your grace?”

She doesn’t try to be seductive in the least but it all comes natural to her. She’s not as tall as him but reaches over his shoulder and to his ear, exhaling hotly, making him shiver and sweat with unknown sensations.

“Because of the cold?” and her fingers open the buttons one by one exposing Robb’s grey doublet fixed with a golden chain. Asha curls her fingers on the fine decoration appreciatively. She doesn’t wear some herself but that’s because she considers it bothersome on the battlefield.

“Fine things you wear, your grace…” she continues to pull on the little chain until his neck is visibly exposed and the rest of his upper chest covered only by the soft white of a silken top, so thin, Asha could swear it’s transparent. Needless to say, the king starts to shiver and blush fiercely. Her hands run over his chest, well-defined and strong. She approves of it, by the sounds coming from her mouth. Suddenly she is so close to his face, her mouth so hot on his skin, her fingers clutching possessively, yet so sweetly, that Robb thinks he’s going to faint if she keeps at it.

“I am glad you decided to listen to me, my king” and kisses him intently on the mouth, drawing all his breath and pulling him into her, engulfing his lips with her own. Robb can’t even speak, he doesn’t dare. His hands, uncertain, hold on her hips, somehow they found their way without him knowing and they draw her closer to his waist, a thigh, warm and strong pushing into her own, almost encasing her. That’s all too natural for him, as natural as drawing wine from a skin and holding a sword in his hand.

“Call me Robb,” he finally decides to speak, while she nibbles at the corner of his mouth. His lower lip is so swollen and his head so dizzy that he may collapse so he’s glad he can count on her to sustain his weight. She’s like the strongest wine he’s ever tasted.

“You know what I’d do?” she stops briefly, in between sweet kisses and looks him straight in the eyes. He’d listen to just about anything only to have her do that again. “…after we win this war…?” And she resumes kissing him, drowning him with her sweet tongue and setting him ablaze some more. ”I’d gather the Boltons and the Freys, take everything that’s mine from them and hang them in a tree…”

Robb’s too far gone to shiver at the gravity of what she says. Somehow, her words make more sense than anything he’s heard in a while from all the counselors and scribes dabbling in politics. Maybe he’ll do just that, if it pleases her.

.

.

.

As soon as the one named Theon Greyjoy, prince to the Iron Islands, commander of this ship and incurable womanizer gave the order to his men, Jon Snow’s fate changed. However, he did not expect to be shoved and locked into a cabin on a stationing ship without as much as a word.

Jon was upset. Jon was enraged. He hid his face and remained huddled in his furs and whenever someone brought him food and wine, he didn’t as much as turn to thank them.

He barely managed to eat a bit of bread that he felt he was going to spill his insides on the floor. The ship swayed mercilessly and the enraged waves threatened to smash it to pieces. Jon felt nauseous. For the first time he felt utterly alone. Theon Greyjoy lied to him. Theon Greyjoy, instead of taking him away as he promised last night, has forgotten all about him.

Three days, three cursed days have passed and Jon felt he could climb up the walls. That’s how terrible he felt. He managed to convince the boy that brought him food that he needed to take a walk. That was the peak of his day. The sea was so furious that Jon didn’t even think of running away. He was a wanted man, after all.

On the fourth, he could barely keep to his room. That’s how hard on his ears was the constant creak of the wood and rope and the clashing of the sea-waves on the sides of the ship. Everything was in constant imbalance, Jon remarked. The ship swayed by the dictation of the waves, either to the left, either to the right, either slowly, lazily, either nervously, brutally, like an untamed horse. Those nervous shakes made Jon think he was going to end up dead in his cabin.

On the fifth, he started reading all the maps and the scrolls he could find. How he missed the feel of a sword in his hand! How he missed dry land, how he missed Ghost, running next to him in the snow!

On another day - Jon lost count of how many- he started memorizing the maps. Somehow, he bribed the kitchen-boy to bring him a sharp knife and a comb. That day, Jon Snow discovered it wasn’t that difficult to shave by watching your reflection in the water.

He could cope with all this. It wasn’t different from the wall, but here, no one paid any attention to him. No one even turned to smirk into his face and best him at sword fighting. No one called him a bastard. He was growing tired. Some days he would get news from the land, snippets of information and gossip. They took the Trident.

Of course they took the Trident. The bloody Trident. And when did Jon stop caring? His brother had an ally, ten times better than Jon Snow, deserter from the Night’s Watch service. He even managed to make everyone at the Wall turn against him when he decided to run and fight for Robb. And now he was here, in a cabin filled with spoils of war, weird maps, unintelligible scrolls and moldy books that even a bored Tyrion Lannister wouldn’t bother reading. Jon Snow, however, had read them all.

What hurt him the most, though, was that he’d been forgotten and left alone, just like the trinkets and stolen goods that surrounded him.

 The Ironborn were hard, difficult men, born and raised in the blowing winds, between rough rocks and scarcity of food. Their lives were bleak, except for the raiding and the reaping. Thieves, pirates, rapists, that’s what they were. Theon Greyjoy was a proud, handsome thing whose mind seemed directly attached to his manhood and who jumped into war like a dog would for a bone.

He was an arrogant prick.

 It wasn’t the thought of Greyjoy touching him inappropriately that bothered him that much. It was the thought of his indifference that did it. He simply disappeared. He went to war with his sword and his cock and his bloody disgusting promises. He especially hated those, how they made him feel. They made him feel good, wanted, with a purpose. 

So what if he felt wanted? No whore in Winterfell would have denied him... in case he asked.

It angered Jon, the inability to prove Lady Catelyn wrong, this confinement, this salt wife madness. Mistaken for a maiden? Jon exhaled ruefully at the insult. Cheated and denied to be a man by his bastard nature.

Theon Greyjoy didn’t even ask for his name. What if he asked and found out the truth? He would have died there, in the dungeons of Winterfell, finally fulfilling Lady Catelyn’s wish and disgracing his brother, Robb.

For that reason, he felt that it was worse than when Catelyn forbade from entering the great hall during King Robert Baratheon’s visit.

 Jon laughed mirthlessly at that. The Kraken prince will have the shock of his life when he’ll feel Jon’s rough stubble and see how hard his body could be. That would teach him to keep his hands to himself.

He shouldn’t have shaved that one time, Jon reminisced… He should see Jon for what he really is: a man.

He tried to sleep but had rather weird dreams. He was running through the woods, sniffing and chasing like an animal for his prey. He woke up more tired than usual and when he did, it was because the unfamiliar sound of snapping sails startled him.

 He felt groggy and thirsty for wine but as he tried to get up from the bed trying to maintain balance and focus, the cabin’s door swung open and Greyjoy himself appeared, drunk as a pig, blood-stained and wearing an insatiable look on his face. Behind him, he dragged a tattered sack. Jon could barely make a move, because blood was oozing out, leaving a trail.

.

.

.

Asha’s voice is pleasant and comforting to his ears, a perfect harmony, if not a bit strong, merging naturally to their surroundings. “You didn’t go back on your word, your grace.” She rolls the scroll containing Robb’s signature and seal and hides it in her tunic’s inner pocket.

He waits for her to get off the horse, trying very hard not to intervene in her descent. After all, she is perfectly capable to do it by herself. These past few weeks, Robert learnt some very important lessons and he understood that what would seem proper and nice to do for a lady in Winterfell, would seem demeaning to women like Asha.

They clashed with the Freys as soon as they approached the Twins. It was unexpected, to say the least, but then they learned that Bolton split his army and decided to capture Winterfell. Tywin Lannister’s plan to squash the North would have works just fine if it weren’t for Theon Greyjoy’s prompt intervention.

“It is not fit for a man and neither a king to go back on his word.” He barely avoided calling her “my lady” or “lady Asha”. He learnt his lesson well.

She just smirked and handed her horse to one of her squires before she entered the tent.

“I’d say that we deterred them from attacking us for now, although this is prone to change in a couple of weeks.” She turns and looks at him speculatively, a mischievous smile on her lips, her cheeks quite red and hot from exertion rather than sentiment, Robb notes, a tinge of regret on his brow. “What?” She bursts in laughter as she can see him so open before her.

“W-what, my lady…” It slips, and Robb punches himself mentally.

 He is embarrassed, still, mostly because a couple of weeks of Greyjoy rudeness couldn’t overcome years of cold, honest Stark conditioning. There’s no fear of ridicule on his face, rather a melancholy and a pensiveness that endears him to Asha. They are completely alone now that is night and safe, and instead of reaching for the goblet full of wine and the steak, Asha goes straight to Robb. Her steps are precise, so confident of her victory that Robb straightens himself on his seat and when she plops into his lap, he expects a slap not a kiss. He’s mistaken… it is a kiss.

With teeth and tongue, so wet and wicked that he swears she bit his lip and now she muzzles on his mouth.  The image of Grey Wind at the neck of the old, debauched Frey burns in his mind’s eye only for a second before being replaced by Asha’s feverish eyes on him in the battle. She struck a man in half… he cannot laugh at the idea but is rather impressed by her bursts of energy, velocity and sometimes… brutality. Like this moment.

“So… “ she breaks the kiss only to embarrass him further, because her voice and gaze are so direct, so unsubtle, that Robb’s northern blood stirs and rebels every time she teases him. “I should reward you.”

Robb is like a statue from the crypt, frozen and quiet. His cheeks are red and his breeches shamelessly tight because Asha has the insolence to grind once in a while with merciless satisfaction that it makes him lose all his words and his thoughts.

A mouse would have been envious of Robert Starks’s ability to keep quiet.

“Now that I deprived you of your Frey wife…” Her hands drop right on the painful bulge in his breeches and he tries to push her, he really does. Of course he fails. He does not want to offend her.

Or so he thinks.

“There is compensation… and there is a greater kind of satisfaction… my grace…” To say that his eyes became sapphire blue when surrounded by his flushed skin, would have been poetic, Asha thought. She never had the time for it, though... too busy taking what’s hers.

When his doublet hangs weakly on his shoulder after the buttons were quite wickedly pulled, Robb’s awareness of their situation became quite pressing. There was a bed… there was a table – quite big, he could see, there was this chair… or they could lie down on the carpet. He could lose his innocence without further complications, he would taste the forbidden, and he would get to love this impossible woman. He barely knew her, his mind chided, ignoring with difficulty the undulating motions of her hips, her open doublet, her chest so close to his, enough to feel the mounds of her breasts. He could seize them with his hands, he could… He could do more than that, he thought.

The moment she stopped teasing and cradled his head with a hand only to undo his breeches with the other, Robb snapped, quite unkindly, half drowned in sensation, half burnt by the will of his blood.

“We should wait,” he calmly drew his words out, in spite of uneven breaths and promises of the flesh.

“Why?” her question sounded too innocent and hurried to his ears. He couldn’t shame her like this. He was a king, he always respected his promises, he will always hold dignity higher than reason or the matters at hand. The thought of Jon Snow’s unvoiced suffering, of his father’s greatness and his mistakes, of his mother, of the plain Frey girls that cried and panicked when his men thwarted the corruption and the plans of their father - all these thoughts left him bitter and unfulfilled. If there was a way, he would pledge to his duty and his honor. Also… to love, because Robb Stark’s confusion dispelled like a cloud when faced with the sun when they fought together.

“Marry me,” he said decisively, keen on getting an answer out of her.

“What?” Now… lady Asha was just being rude. Of course she was, it was her nature.

“Be my wife and we’ll rule the North together. I wouldn’t have made it this far if it wasn’t for you. You respected your promise, I respected mine, I am a king without a queen, I am lonely…” He looked expectantly at her but she just waited for him to go on, her lips set in a straight line, her eyes judging, hard like the stones under the water. She tried being patient but she huffed hotly on his neck.

“We should do this properly,” he finally let it out, not daring to look her in the eyes but gesturing between them as if it was simple to understand what was going on in there. “I cannot take your maidenhead like this… in this place… your innocence…”

She surprised him when her cackle pierced through the tension gathered in that tent. She was clearly amused, shuddering with laughter and almost crying for it.

“What does this place have to do with my maidenhead?” She wiped her tears of amusement and scrunched her nose at him. “Your grace… I am sorry if I mislead you in thinking that I haven’t already broken my maidenhead, curious thing to hold onto for a woman among all those men, mind you.” Robb didn’t look at her, more because he felt his cheeks blushing harder than ever. He worried his lower lip only to discover how raw it felt, how swollen. He should concentrate on that, he suspected. Her hand was conciliatory on his, he liked that. Gradually, their eyes met, breaking the strain of their unvoiced questions. Would you still want me? Would you still honor your proposal?

If there was an important thing that Robb learned from his father, it was sincerity. He could appreciate it on those who wore it on their faces and in their words. He wanted to ask but the words wouldn’t come, they came too soon on his tongue, too unfocused, too desperate.

“It was a sailor boy from Lys with smooth cheeks and eyes like the ocean. He was handsome and so young… and I was young as well, younger than you, perhaps. I left with my uncle’s fleet and never saw him again.” She was very serious when she said it to him, and something in Robb broke and mended at the same time. “I never thought of it like that. I never gave it importance. I chose my own fate and walked my own path.”

“Marry me,” he said, demanding, almost. He was every bit as fiery as the summer sun, taking her hands in his own with the typical impetuosity of youth.

“ You are younger than I am…”

“You are older…” Robb looked at her, with challenge sparkling in his eyes.

“You are but a boy-king! You trust too easily and you’re too honest for your own good. I’ve long since broken my maidenhead, Robb Stark.” Her tone went from grim to a warning.

“You’re rude and… beautiful.”

They both burst into laughter, shame and uncertainty gone in an instant.

“You’re every bit the woman that I want.”

.

.

.

The head was ugly, and seemed to have parted with the rest of the body with difficulty. The eyes were bulged. The man met death with a cruel expression and indefinite coldness. Dirty black hair seemed to have glued itself in long, stripy meshes on that pale face. Pieces of bone stuck awkwardly from the rest of the mangled neck. He’s seen that once… when his Lord father beheaded that poor lunatic that claimed he escaped the Others in the forest. In an instant it was rolling, the eyes still moving in their sockets.  He’d never seen one so close. This one looked like he suffered a dull and undecided blade. Greyjoy was holding it high in the air, a triumphant smirk on his face. Jon straightened the fur cape around himself, dignified, hiding the knife in the folds.

What was the meaning of that?

He couldn’t decide where his eyes should stop first, on the gruesome head or on Greyjoy, who was laughing insanely, blind to his surroundings. Was he that arrogant that didn’t see Jon? Was he blind? He heard he was quite the talented archer… how could that work, Jon wondered.

“This is the bastard’s head!” He shouted.

Theon Greyjoy's fingernails were deeply stained with dried blood as they clutched at the long, dark hair, dangling the head in front of him.The Kraken on his armor splattered with seven different shades of red still shone of metal in the evening sun.

 _“He’s gone mad"_ , Jon gulped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh... can you guess whose bastard that head belonged to?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone seems to have reached a compromise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a bit late, but here is the 4th chapter...

 Cersei, the Queen, was seated right across from her, dressed all in black, as pale as death, silent as a shadow. Her mouth was a straight line, her eyebrows frozen in a perpetual frown; only her fingers moved up and down on over the crystal glass in a self-comforting gesture. Asha imagined it must have been extremely difficult for her to sign the documents now attesting Stannis as Lord of the realm. Her father, the most cunning Lannister she knew, was now locked, imprisoned in a filthy cell and her brother, the Kingslayer, barely escaped his tormentors.

Cersei’s children have been separated from one another. Jeoffrey, her eldest, was deemed unfit to take the throne, not because of his age but because of his inherent cruelty and madness. The only one that seemed unaffected by it was Tyrion Lannister, the Imp himself who was digging into the thick gravy and slurping from his spoon. He looked quite happy, which disturbed Asha a bit.

Stannis didn’t seem fit to be a king either. He made Robb kneel to him and swear. Surprisingly, he asked Asha to do the same, kneel in obeissance as if she was one of the men. She could hate the man easily, especially since he brought with him the red witch who looked her up and down and smiled derisively upon resting her eyes on her chopped hair and manly attire.

Asha couldn’t wait to leave Casterly Rocks, the filthy, narrow streets reminding her more than ever of putrid fish guts and the people governing it of greedy little worms.

Even her reflection in the crystal glass seemed tired, surrounded by velvety red wine. Only Robb’s eyes from the far end of the table comforted her, for she knew he had never looked that way at anyone else before. His sweet smile was directed at her and his eyes were blue, with the luster of fire and ice.

.

.

.

His stained plate armor shone vaguely with amber and red. He could say it wasn’t that much of a shock, for prince Greyjoy didn’t scream, didn’t yell, didn’t make a sound. His mouth was agape. He looked pretty much like a fish out of water.

Jon was at an impasse. It could have been the easier if Greyjoy yelled and screamed for the guards to take and throw him away.

 Jon stood still on the small, hard bed and just waited, not risking a glance elsewhere. Greyjoy’s face looked ugly and handsome at the same time, golden-pale, framed by dark, luscious hair, flowing in long waves on his shoulders. It cast a shadow on his eyes. What frightened him the most was the prince’s livid face, his snarling mouth, his nostrils flaring with disdain. He felt like the subject of a cruel jape and still hoped in vain that Greyjoy would shower him with his drunken attentions and his usual lascivious words. He even expected him to start laughing and ask for the maiden-fair that took his mind away, but Greyjoy didn’t.

Jon felt sick when the room started shifting and trembling again with the force of the waves hitting the cabin. He grabbed for balance at heavy bed-rest, his hands weak and trembling.

In that moment, the prince let go of the cold, dead head of the man Jon knew not. The head rolled noislessly on the floor and with the sway of the ship it ended up right at his feet. He recoiled from it, further away. The sight made him nauseous.

Snow fought to maintain his calm, not a worried line creasing his forehead and his full lips remained set in a sad, straight line. He dared to look the prince in his eyes, expecting every bit of cold, shattering anger but the eyes looked defeated.

“You don’t look older than four and ten, all dressed in black…” He struggled to remain calm, yet coldness seeped from his voice. The air in between them turned heavy, as if in preparation for a storm. Jon remained motionless at the unsure display of dark emotions.

“Oh, by the Drowned God! Stop making that long face! Stop looking at me like that!”

He then reached for the boy, urgently tugging at his chin and forcing his stormy eyes on him. Jon didn't look away, though. His face was guarded and solemn but his dark grey eyes could barely conceal defiance and fear swelling up in him. He should have listened to Lord Mormont when he asked him to choose his family wisely. He shouldn’t have run at his brother’s first call, he should have stoically stayed there, endured the cold and the whispers about the coming of the Others and their Wights with a sword in his hand.

The first signs of confrontation started brewing between them. Even their eyes confessed to it. Anger, surprise, rebelliousness, mingling in the stare like a passing reflection of the liaisons between the icy North and the stormy Iron islands themselves. Many misunderstandings, defeats, threats and dishonesty, the unknown, the faraway… they clashed like metal on metal, gritty, screeching, and unstoppable.

.

.

.

His hand is warm when he touches hers. It isn’t soft and she didn’t expect it to be, not from all that sword fighting and horse riding. When he pushes her against the wall and traps her body with his, Asha can’t help but smirk at him.

Her stare is knowing, as if she expected it but Robb doesn’t blush tonight and it’s the thought that she has irrevocably changed something in him that arouses her the most. His russet curls shine metallically in the faint light of the candles and his eyes look darker than usual, the pupil engulfing the blue with its darkness. His eyes speak to her of urgency and desire. She is more than willing to give and not wanting to scare him away but to encourage him, she plays coy; she even forces her eyes to shut when he starts kneading her buttocks with one hand while with the other he gently touches her neck. The touch is funnily inexperienced but as usual, Robb compensates with his enthusiasm and overzealousness. His hardness is pushing into her thigh urgently and his incoherent moan is what undoes her completely.

She cannot help a snort, and she fears that she might have hurt his feelings. Childish fumbles that are either too harsh or not enough amuse her. She wants something from him and she knows how to get it.

“Is this how you respect your vows, my King?” Her eyes shine in defiance and she looks at him with a hint of superiority. “I thought you were supposed to wed me, not bed me first… And now, that you won the battle, we have all the time in the world to find a bed.”

The moment she says the words, Robb’s hands freeze and a terrible redness crawls on his face as if he’s been caught stark naked in front of the whole court of Casterly Rocks. Asha has to admit that she feels a bit guilty for ruining his plans but she has something else in mind, something better.

“It’s not that I mind it, on the contrary… but do you really want the whole castle and the Lannisters and even our mighty ruler of Westeros to hear us?”

Her voice is full of irony and mischief, though.

.

.

.

“You should have left when you had the chance,” he says as his grip tightens and his hand pushes Jon’s head impossibly high that now the boy can see the wooden ceiling. The ship sways uncertainly but he’s cold like a block of ice, resisting. His neck hurts, his shoulders are in pain as he feels Greyjoy’s other hand clawing at the muscles there, from under the thick cloak. The sharp smell of dried blood attacks his nose and he pushes away unaware that the hand on his chin became lax, lazy. He is glad for once that his meals were inconsistent, because his stomach turns and twists with nausea.

Theon withdrew his hand and sustained his body instead. He looked at him strangely and straightened his body before he forcefully pulled him into a standing position. The difference in height was significant, Jon noticed.

 “You are not fair and you clearly are not dainty,” he says with a hint of regret. At this remark, Jon frowned instinctively, confusion being replaced by an insidious feeling of carelessness at whatever fate awaited him. Somehow, the remark had the power to hurt him, even though it was just a passing unpleasant feeling.

“What should I do with you, little boy?”

He whispered in a voice that made Jon shudder with the memories of the first time he touched him. He fixed his dark eyes on Theon Greyjoy, barely masking his curiosity. He decided on defying the prince, on beating him at his own game.

But the prince was smarter than that.

“Should I send you back to your Lady mother, back to Winterfell? Should I put you on a ship and leave you at the mercy of the sea? Should I drown you? Should I gut and behead you like I did to Bolton’s bastard?” Greyjoy placed his foot on the cold head and gave it a violent push, sending it to the other end of the cabin, now far away from Jon.

The look in Jon’s eyes shattered any illusion of forbearance. He looked downright frightened, his eyes two dark whirlpools of dread. The mere implication of a horrible death coming from this man, unsettled him. Theon Greyjoy looked frightening and at the same time his sole chance to survive.

Just when he thought everything to be lost, a strange thought bloomed into his mind. It could be his salvation.

“No…please, let me stay with you,” he whispered as he dared touch Greyjoy’s shoulder. “You look tired, my prince, let me help you relax.” The mere gesture was obviously offering a way of compromise.

Greyjoy was disarmed, instantly. He just stared at Jon and his eyes glimmered in a strange, new way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you think? Comments are much appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and this is the (happy) end, because poetic justice and all that crap!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... so... It's been quite a while since I have last updated! Enjoy!

Asha looks regal in her faux princess dress. The way she walks among all the Lannisters proves their beliefs that the Ironborns are all but savages wrong. As the new king in the North wants nothing but peace, they are smart enough to agree and sign a treaty. They do what is demanded of them. No Lannister lived and eschewed on their debts, after all. Lord Varys knew that well enough.

She is fierce and resolute as she helps welding this new alliance, as fierce as Cersei, the lioness queen, as resolute as her crude father.

They are free now, or so they think… if compromise could ever be thought of as a premise for freedom.

And so, they are off to the cold, cold North, the new king and his warrior queen, followed by Sansa, whose innocence has been rescued in time.

It is no wonder that innocence prevailed this time again.

Two months later, king Jeoffrey dies as he chokes on peas, right in front of his beloved mother. Needless to say, queen Cersei is stricken with grief and after making several poor decisions – like sleeping with her own brother, she is repudiated from Casterly Rocks by Tywin Lannisetr himself.

But trouble did not end for the Lannisters, for in short time after the whole scandal, Tywin himself dies a mysterious death.

.

.

.

While Ironborn aren’t usually known for their tact or their manners, Jon finds himself questioning the meaning of his confinement pretty often. It’s not the wines and the surprisingly lavish dinners that make him think the contrary, but the behavior of each and every Ironborn in Theon Greyjoy’s service towards him.  They conscientiously make preparations for the final journey: meeting Balon Greyjoy, whose reputations (or lack thereof) precedes him. Jon himself is in charge for these preparations and it is times like these when he thinks of the whole ordeal and smiles, because things have turned in his favor, after all.

Cleanly shaven, he now looks like his younger, innocent self again, except no matter how much Theon would try now, he cannot imagine the youth as anything but male. That fantasy has forever been ruined for him.

Jon’s strong, sinewy body became both a source of frustration and pleasure to him. The way boys smiles as he brings a skin of wine to his lips and then passes it around makes his insides burn with the prickly flame of jealousy and every time he notices the covetous glances that the other men throw his way, Theon gathers all his strength to stop himself from grabbing the young wolf from his hand and fuck him into a wall. He can control himself, he thinks every time this happens.

He can control himself.

He knows he’s lying to himself, though.

.

.

.

Lady Catelyn is not pleased. To what foul embraces is his dear son subjected to? What unholy practices? Her short hair and boyish manner, her love of hunting and sparring, her hands on his poor, handsome boy make her blood boil. She is secretly plotting on removing her but never acts upon her fantasies. That would make Robb angry and displeased with her.

All she ever does is glare and smile a fake smile every time she encounters that foul, ironborn woman. She doesn’t dare call her queen in her mind.

Robb seems to be drowned in perfect bliss every time he meets his wife, his queen and now for certain, the love of his life. He went past holding her hand in the hallway and kissing her hotly in dark corners of the library. She dares him to make a move and somehow he senses both guilt and a feeling of shame about her whenever he confesses his love for her. However, she says nothing, her silence a pure message of acceptance. As long as her boy wears that happy smile on his face, the monster inside Catelyn’s chest dissolves like smoke in the wind.

At least, now Sansa is with her and the rest of the family and far away from that bad-blood Jeoffrey Lannister. Asha passes right in front of her and smiles graciously.

Catelyn almost likes her. Almost.

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.

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Balon Greyjoy died swallowed by the angry sea. It was too much for his little black heart to accept that his heir has taken to bed a… a… northerner… and what’s worse… a man at that.

He was buried in the sea.

The heavy rain that fell those days was enough to mourn him a thousand times.

They are in the dank main hall and Jon is exploring the engravings in stone of weird sea creatures, mostly tentacled beasts. The kraken above the fireplace is amazing, wild and fearsome. He traces the cold contours with calloused fingers and it’s the chill that makes him think he could accept this place as his home.

From the seastone throne, Theon Greyjoy watches him lazily, his grey eyes sweeping over his body like waves on a seashore.

“Come here,” he says, voice thick with lust and wine.

“Come here and sit,” he motions to the throne.

Jon approaches slowly, purposefully.

“…sit here, on your lap, my lord?”

“…”

“…”

His cheek is soft. He’s shaven today.

.

.

.

Somewhere near the woods, under the red foliage of the Heart tree, Asha and Robb embrace. She smiles mysteriously at him, drowning in pools of cobalt blue. He kisses her deeply. Sansa watches from afar, swatting at Arya’s busy arms.

“Let me see,” she mutters but is still dwarfed by Sansa and the tall leafy bushes.

“Shhhh… They will hear us!”

“But I want to see!”

With a swift movement of her foot, she kicks Sansa, who manages to drag her sister down with her.

“Why did you do that?” It’s Arya who asks, annoyance and displeasure welling in her voice.

Sansa’s cheeks are red and her eyes moist. She worries at her lips- a bad habit that took over her in the past few months.

“Be quiet, we shouldn’t see that anyway!”

Her voice is whispery and shame crawls up her cheeks. She’s peony red now, like the most beautiful flowers in Casterly Rocks.

“Oh…” realization downs on Arya who now turns her head in the opposite direction of where she supposes Robb and Asha are.

“Oh…”

 ---

end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me until the end. I had to gather my strength and push myself to somehow finish. I wanted a happy, ambiguous ending in order to keep it T. Apparently, I have lost my ability to write emotional smut. I'll try to bring that back into my other fics (which are locked and rated R).  
> Have a happy day!


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